Home

picture courtesy of decor8.

Love the stools. Reminded me so much of
Home.

Growing up, those stools, either in
auburn brown or rust brown
had never been anyone's favorite.
Unless when left with no choice
and you need to be around a huge round table
filled with occasional faces and food.
The closest to being loved would be any weekends.
Dad would carry one to a corner and fix a leaking air-cond
while mom would drag another one
to reach for the huge Nespray milk can
reused to store square Khong Guan biscuits
on top of the kitchen's shelf.
We kids would then with our four tiny hands
carry whichever stool so we could
pluck sweet jambu merah from
our flowering rose apple tree
just next to our store house...
Even stools could bring back
so much of the past,
makes me wonder how much could
a home fit in a poem like this.

I guess missing home is somehow constant.
No matter how much I believe in the saying:
Nothing is permanent and change is constant.

I just want to believe now
that I will never stop missing home
until my human growth hormone
tells me to do so.